On this, the Monday-est of all Mondays

Today had me feeling some type of way… some type of melancholy. The Monday-est of all Mondays.

Tonight I crawled into bed with a glass of wine and some Faulkner, but I ended up with my laptop out, looking through photos of Scotland – of the place I called home for only half a year – and missing it something fierce. (May or may not have squeezed my eyes shut reaaaaally tight, in hopes that when I opened them I would be in my itty bitty icky flat, and I could throw on my rain coat and run down the hill to my favorite cafe for a flat white, or to ‘Spoons for a pint. It didn’t work.)

I think it hit me so hard because instead of looking through my best photos – the ones that are edited and perfectly posed – I ended up flipping through ALL of them. The bloopers made me miss it more.

Ah, what a time that was. How the sheep ran to me, embracing me in love and fluffy kisses. (Not what happened.) How the Scottish security guards LOVED seeing me climbing on the wall of Edinburgh Castle, trying to get that perfect gram even though the drop on the other side was 30-50 feet. “Tourists will be tourists,” they said good-naturedly. One may have even offered to take the photo for me. (Not what happened.) Oh how that handsome young bagpiping soldier offered to let me try to play his quaint lil instrument. (Ok fine, he’s not, strictly speaking, “alive,” so that’s not what happened either.)

Ahem.

Anyway.

Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

Awkward selfies with my Canadian bestie, pics of many a meal of “fancy ramen” in my little plastic purple bowls, photos of wild drunken Scots messing about in the quad outside my bedroom window, playing in the 1/4 inch of snow that decided to bless Glasgow that winter.

Rain-soaked bridge running photos. Rain-soaked castle hill climbing photos. Rain soaked runs back from the grocery store photos. (It rains a lot in Glasgow, ok?)

Seriously, so much rain. But look at those smiles. Aw. What a time we had.

Every happy memory comes rushing back so easily, in the blink of an eye. I don’t remember how I felt in the nights lying in my twin sized bed with the crappiest mattress, wishing I was home, wishing the noise outside my window at 2 am was my family rather than another drunken college student celebrating a rugby victory or just celebrating your average Wednesday night. I don’t spend time dwelling on the days when I legitimately thought I was going to fail my Arthurian Legends class because the professor was a… word I’m not going to write here.

Instead I remember last minute train rides to new cities and running to the pub with new friends. I spend days thinking about flat whites and empire biscuits. Or just biscuits in general (an under-appreciated food here in America. And no I’m not talking about the biscuits you douse in gravy).

It’s so easy to pine after the good things about a place, an experience, a memory, a person… anything you lose, really. It’s so easy to forget the things you didn’t like.

One thing I do remember is how afraid I was of coming home. I knew I didn’t have a lot to come back to. I wanted to see my family. I wanted to drive my car. I had a couple close friends I knew would still be there for me. But I also knew that when I stepped off the plane in Philadelphia, I would be stepping away from some friendships and relationships that had been integral parts of my life before I stepped onto another plane in Philadelphia just half a year before.

I had no idea if I would find new relationships to step into.

But here I am, 1 year and a couple months out, and I have never felt more at home in a place than I do in Lancaster, right now. 22 years old – most of those years spent right here, in good ole Lanc. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this feels like home. I shouldn’t feel surprised that these people are home. I shouldn’t feel surprised at it all.

But I do.

Because before I left, this wasn’t home. It was just the place I was from.

I came home not knowing what I was coming back to, or why. And then my purpose found me. I found people to pour into, and people stepped in to pour into me.

Maybe it’s just chance. Or maybe someone is pulling the strings.

I’m reminded again tonight that God knows what He’s doing. That He’s most in control when I’ve given up my petty little excuse for power. That sounds simple enough, and maybe it is, but I need to keep reminding myself.

I’m reminded that when I tell Him daily my talents are His for the using, He will use them. I’m reminded that He’s ALWAYS speaking. When I can’t hear Him it’s not because He’s gone silent, but because I’ve stop listening. (Or because I’ve let my Bible sit idle by my bedside for too long.)

I’m reminded tonight that when I give Him my heart, it might get a little dented and it might be pulled in different directions, but it will not be destroyed beyond repair. I’m reminded that He cares about my desires more than I ever could. That He’s already given me the desires of my heart, and that He will continue to.

I’m reminded that every single time I’ve let anxiety and fear and doubt overcome me, He’s proven Himself – He’s come through, again, and again, and again. He didn’t have to. But He did. Because He knows my heart. He knows my heart desires Him above every other desire, but He also knows I’m easily distracted. He knows what I, specifically, need.

I’m reminded that He is good. That He helps us to gradually move on from things we need to move on from (even if they were really good things, in their season). Even when we want to hold on.

And I’m reminded that when memories come back like a whisper, sewing little seeds of discontent, of self-doubt, sewing little seeds of you’re not enough, you’re not doing big things like you used to… Why are you doing this when you could be doing that?

His voice rings out in the darkness :

I am enough.

I am more than enough, so you don’t have to be. 

Friendly reminder to look around at your life. Find the good. The Father has you where you are for a reason. If you don’t think that’s true, start asking Him for revelation. Don’t stop asking.

Let me just quote the great Ferris Bueller before I hit publish: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.”

Love ya’ll. Thanks for reading.

XOXO,

Carrie

 

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It’s All Process

I haven’t been writing lately. Not really.

It’s hard and scary for me to even admit that here because through all life’s seasons and phases, I have always identified as a writer.

It’s not that I don’t write anything… I write letters and often I spaz out on my keyboard for 10 or 15 minutes before sending a rant off to a close friend. But I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been journaling and I haven’t been producing much fiction either.

I haven’t been writing because of all the excuses.

I can shoot off a list if you ask. It starts with “busy” and ends with “relationships” or “work” or any number of things.

None of those excuses are legitimate.

You make time for what is important to you. I have the same 24 hours in my days as my favorite writers, or the scientist who discovers a cure, or the teenager who creates an app that changes everything. I have the same 24 hours in my day as the people I see enacting the most change in the world – the people touching the most lives.

I choose what I do in each of those 24 hours. I choose what I do in each of those 1,440 minutes. In each of those 86,400 seconds.

I choose.

When I don’t take time to sit down with my journal, even for 10 minutes at the end of the day, I’m failing to value myself and my well-being. To me, those 10 minutes are the most calming part of the day. A chance for reflection, a chance to tell God what I’m struggling with, and a chance to understand myself. Those 10 or 20 or 120 minutes can take me from confused and distraught to completely at peace.

I have become a verbal processor recently, out of pure necessity. I’ve always processed through my emotions and thoughts via writing. But I’m becoming a verbal processor because I have started robbing myself of those times of written processing. I’m becoming a verbal processor, and I’m bad at it.

The only option, the only way to sort through my thoughts, is to start writing them down again.

Last night I went for a late night run, letting the chilly fall air fill my lungs, then I crawled into bed with my journal and a few pieces of fancy dark chocolate my parents bought me in Germany. I turned on my diffuser and the soothing scent of lavender soon filled the air (essential oils plug because they will change your life).

I am invigorated by the run and by the pen in my hand, and I feel alive.

Which is strange. Because lately I’ve been feeling pretty much dead in the evenings.

Which is strange. Because I’m a night person.

I’m a night person. But now, sitting down with my journal and giving myself permission to just write – until midnight if I want to, until 1 or 2 if I can keep my eyes open – feels luxurious. It is thrilling… almost naughty, like if someone walked into the room I’d feel embarrassed and slip my journal under my pillow in a flash.

It is simultaneously foreign and familiar. It feels like driving a few hours out of my way to reconnect with a friend I’ve known for a decade or two. It feels like sitting on a stool at the island in my mom’s kitchen after being away for a few weeks, the familiar smells of fresh fruit pies or roast chicken or whole wheat bread wafting throughout the house. It feels like the moment, driving home late at night, when that song from high school comes on shuffle and brings back memories you thought you’d lost.

It is stepping off the Paris metro for the first time, early on Easter morning, with no idea where the day will take you. What you’ll see, what you’ll hear, what you’ll smell… just knowing whatever it is, it will be wonderful.

I am exercising a muscle that used to be my strongest one – tough and defined. I’m tearing through layers of scar tissue that have been growing over my heart and soul. It feels good, and it hurts.

I am writing.

Writing is emotion. I love it, but I always feel like maybe with each stroke of my pen, I’m willfully reaching into my chest and prodding around until I find my heart, then proceeding to dig it out, set it on the table in front of me, and poke it until it’s bleeding and gasping for air. So many nights I’ve ripped myself apart and put myself back together with each turn of the page.

As I recount the last few weeks, I laugh and share little anecdotes from daily life, moments when I was happy and laughing and care-free, and I also write down mistakes I’ve made – times when I hurt people and times when I was hurt, and all the doubts that dwell inside me. I am bringing myself back to life. I am reintroducing me to the parts of myself that have been lying dormant, hibernating for the summer. (I gave myself the summer, you see. I graduated, and I let myself take some time away – away from writing, away from reading. I needed a break, but it was supposed to be a short one.)

Summer is over.

And I am a writer.

And a writer is only a writer if she chooses to write. A writer must write before anything else. A writer must write or drown.

Don’t let me leave again.

As much as the pages feel alive, they are inanimate. They have no power here. The only one who can keep the pen in my hand is me.

Don’t let me leave again.

Know yourself. Learn what makes you tick. And when you do figure it out, prioritize it. I’ve known since middle school that I need to journal to process. I’ve known since high school that I receive more revelation through writing than anything else. It’s easy to forget that, when journaling takes time, and I’m tired. I journaled almost daily all through my college years, but sometime this spring I started journaling less and less until I wasn’t anymore.

There’s beauty in the process, whatever the process is to you. Take your time. Be patient with yourself. Learn yourself. Recognize that what works for everyone around you probably won’t work for you. Instead of beating yourself up about it, do it your way. Tap into your passions. Find out what “your way” is. Realize that sometimes your way might change.

I don’t want to be cheesy and say there’s more beauty in the journey than in the destination. The destination has generally been my favorite part of every journey. But as long as we’re here, as long as we’re on earth, all of this – life – is the process. It’s all about getting somewhere, and as long as we’re alive, we won’t arrive. There will always be something more to see, to do, to challenge, to discover.

It’s all process. We may as well enjoy it.

What I’m Listening to This Week: